'I can eat shit that'd make a billy goat puke'
Carl. Carlito, Peter affectionatly calls him, is as Texan a man can come. Trimmed silver mustache, belly pressing against overalls with a cell phone that he keeps in the bib, dozen war stories he ain't supposed to talk about, and twelve pension checks in the mailbox right now. His bills are neatly halved and pinned by a clip that his gold and diamond fingers have pulled out at least a dozen times tonight to buy us another round of beer, of blurberry shots, then peppermint shnapps, and then what are those called again Debbie? Deborah! Bit-o-Honeys he likes to call 'em, and it's on account of those that he got two widows both pregnant in one night he says while shakin' his head.
Peter and me, we are crazy about eachother, and the old barflys love get sentimental with their advice to us. Peter is jumpin' up and down to meet a man in here like Carl tonight, and he is runnin' in circles to the bathroom to pee from the excitment between juke box dedications for Carl. Everytime Peter steps away to the can, Carl is flashin' me his credit cards, tellin' me that they're all mine and can't ever max 'em out and that there's also 200 dollars a week in cash in case I'd want to go to the dollar store or somethin'.

I don't want the money. I just want to grow up to be a dirty old man and not a mean old woman I say. Our envys make both our eyes sparkle.

When we collect our things for the night, Carl curls those fat fingers over Peter's shoulder and leans in to whisper: 'Tonight, you go home and tackle her. Just tackle her...and lemme tell you somethin'...she may not like it at first...'